Stolen Earth, page 12
“I think I can manage that,” Rajani replied. She still didn’t understand what was going on, but she couldn’t deny two simple facts. First, she was alive. She knew that would not be the case were it not for the intervention of whoever these people were. And second, she was breathing air. Old Earth air! Air that flowed not from tanks or carefully monitored environmental systems, but was a natural product of the gravity well and the life-giving plants that enriched the gasses trapped within it. Whether cosmic accident or divine miracle or mathematical inevitability, she was breathing the exact mix of gasses that sustained human life. And she was doing it right from the source! It should have been impossible.
The man nodded and then stepped close. A few seconds of fiddling with the straps, and Rajani was free. She swung her legs off the side of the bed and sat up, rubbing at her wrists where the restraints had chafed. That was when she became aware of the fact that she was wearing a loose gown of sorts. Not a true hospital gown, but something closer to a loose-fitting tunic or smock that fell almost to mid-shin. You could wear regular clothing beneath a ship suit, of course, but doing so prevented the free exercise of certain bodily functions. Since they had had no idea how long they would be on the surface, nor any idea of the environmental hazards they would face, the crew of the Arcus had all opted to forgo additional clothing. She was somewhat disturbed by the thought of these unknown Old Earthlings peeling her suit and all its accompanying connections from her, but she quelled the thought by focusing on the fact that whatever they had done, it had probably saved her life. Besides, thinking of her suit reminded her that there were certain biological needs to which she must attend. And there was the matter of the rest of the crew.
“Do you think I can check on my friends?” she asked. “After I use the facilities, that is.” She offered him a smile of her own, one that she was surprised to find that she actually meant. “And thanks. I guess you probably saved my life. My name is Rajani Hayer.” She extended her hand.
“Oliver,” the man said, removing a glove and shaking her hand with a firm, but not knuckle-busting, grip. “Oliver Stephens.”
“Thank you again, Dr. Stephens,” she offered in return. “The facilities? And my friends?”
“The facilities are through there,” the doctor said, waving to a door set in one wall. “We can talk about your friends when you’re done.”
Rajani nodded and pushed herself to her feet, choosing to ignore the evasion. She was a little unsteady, but Stephens made no move to assist her. Instead, he gave her an encouraging nod and a slight wave of his hand toward the bathroom door.
“Okay,” Rajani muttered, half to herself. She put one foot in front of the other, testing her weight carefully on her unsteady legs. A wave of vertigo passed over her, but in its wake she felt… fine. Normal. Well, so long as she didn’t think about the millions of tiny little robots coursing through her system that were designed in a literal post-apocalyptic wasteland by people who had probably passed the knowledge down orally in some sort of campfire circle or something.
“Definitely better not to think about that,” she said, forgetting for a moment that Stephens was still there, still watching. She made her way to the bathroom and shut the door behind her. It was a surprisingly normal facility. Sink, commode, mirror, small shower stall. The tiling, like everything else, was yellowing and faded, but otherwise, well maintained. After Hayer relieved herself, she went to the sink and washed up. Then she stared at her own face—her own unsuited face—in the mirror.
“Holy shit,” she said softly. “I’m on Old Earth. And there are bloody survivors!” The enormity of it struck her. They all knew the official line. With great regret, and all that. But humanity, relentless in its desire to hold on and apparently unstoppable in its ability to adapt, had survived.
She took a few deep breaths, trying to slow her spinning thoughts. She had to find out about the rest of the crew. And they still had a job to do. And they still had to get off this planet and back to SolComm, eventually. And a thousand other things besides. But she took just another moment to appreciate the fact that she was alive.
As she stepped into the room, she saw immediately that Stephens was still there, but he was not alone. Another man had joined him—perhaps in his early twenties, younger than most of her grad students, with a ruddy complexion and broad shoulders. Despite that breadth he was thin, almost ascetic, with pinched features and a petulant twist to his lips. He was wearing a pistol on his hip too. Hayer didn’t know guns well, but she knew she’d seen that one before. It had saved her life, after all. Right after Morales had used it to put down the soup-can bot that had tried to kill her.
“Time to go,” Stephens said.
She glanced at the gun and, as casually as she could manage, and said, “Um. Doesn’t that belong to one of my friends?”
“Not anymore,” the young man said, his tone forced down into an unnatural register. He thrust his skinny chest out and threw his shoulders back, hand tightening on the butt of the pistol.
That sent a chill of worry racing up Hayer’s spine. Did that mean Morales hadn’t made it? Or that they were prisoners? The doctor had seemed rational enough, but the younger man was much more aggressive.
Before she could think of a response, Stephens shook his head and pointed a finger at the young man. “Enough of that. This woman just got up from a sickbed, Tomas. She doesn’t need your posturing.” The younger man snorted but relaxed a little. He didn’t, Hayer noted, take his hand off the grips of Morales’ pistol. But to her eye, he held it more like a talisman than a weapon.
“Now, if you’ll come with us,” Stephens said, “we’ll take you to see your friends.”
GRAY
Gray leaned back in the battered conference chair, hands behind his head, drumming the fingers of his exposed right hand against the back of his exposed left hand. Exposed, because his ship suit was gone—no shoes, nothing but this weird smock they’d given him. But at least he was still alive. And if his “rescuers” were telling the truth, so were the rest of the crew. He’d been checked over by some sort of doctor—a man calling himself Stephens—and then ushered through a maze of hallways strung with makeshift wiring and infrequent bare bulbs. He had no idea where he was, but the building itself looked like it had been through a war. Or two. Or maybe even three. The paint was peeling and stained; there were places that looked as if a fire had started and either burned out or been suppressed; some walls had ragged openings torn through them than he could have walked through without having to duck; and if that wasn’t enough, there were honest-to-God bullet holes scattered across the floor, ceiling, and walls. On his brief journey from the “medical bay” where he’d awoken to the modestly-sized “conference room” where he now sat, he hadn’t seen a single exterior window. He had no idea if he was above ground or below it or just how far they were from the Arcus.
Which explained why he was leaning far enough back in his chair that the front two legs had come off the ground and feigning as much casual relaxation as he could muster. It never paid to let the other guy see you sweat. From what he’d seen so far, the people who had saved—or maybe captured—them were Old Earth-born and not SolComm agents who had tracked them down after their breach of the IZ. The locals had access to technology that had inoculated him against the atmosphere, and—he glanced up at the bare lightbulb above him—they had electricity. If they could manage those things, then surveillance gear wasn’t out of the question.
The door swung open and Gray tensed, though he didn’t change his posture. Leo Federov strode in, glaring at someone over his shoulder. Gray caught the briefest glimpse of a middle-aged woman before the door swung shut again. Federov seemed to take the room in in a single glance before his eyes fell upon Gray and his broad face split into a grin.
“Captain!” he exclaimed. “I thought these mudaki were maybe lying about the rest of you. Is good to see you not dead.”
“It’s good to be not dead, Federov,” Gray replied, a genuine smile replacing the one he had been feigning.
“These people,” Federov growled as he dropped into a chair. “They will tell me nothing of what they have done with our weapons. I do not like being disarmed. Or detained.”
“Me either,” Gray replied. “But they did save us.”
“So they say. For all we know, they are the ones who send the drones after us. The timing of their arrival was convenient.”
Gray couldn’t argue with that. Before he could speak, the door opened again, and Bishop and Morales were ushered in by someone he didn’t see before the door shut. Both were clad in the same shapeless smocks that he and Federov wore. Morales looked pissed.
“Does not look good,” Federov muttered under his breath. The big man was actually trying to hide a smile as he glanced surreptitiously at their security expert. Gray shook his head. Was Federov developing feelings for Morales? That might pose a problem, but it was a problem for a future Gray.
“Captain!” Bishop said when he saw Gray. The engineer somehow managed to look more comfortable than Gray was pretending to feel in the strange clothing. “Have you seen this place? I saw more wood walking down the hallway than I think I’ve seen in my whole life. And I think this smock thing is cotton. I’m wearing a plant!” He laughed as he said it and damned if he didn’t do a pirouette to show it off.
Morales threw the engineer a disgusted glare. “We’ve got bigger things to worry about than plants,” she said. “Like what the hell we’re going to do now.” She shifted back and forth on her feet, as if trying to settle the smock more comfortably.
“Take a seat,” Gray suggested. “I’m not sure what’s going on or who these people are, but they’re putting us together in a room, so they’re either inexperienced or friendly.”
Morales snorted as she dropped into a chair. “You forgot stupid,” she said. “They could just be stupid.”
Bishop also settled into one of the battered chairs. “What do you mean?” He bent down to rub his bare feet, scraping the acquired dust and grime from them.
“Concentration of forces,” Federov said.
“Never let suspects get their stories straight,” Morales added, almost on his heels.
“Oh,” Bishop muttered. “Right.”
“It’s not that complicated, Bishop,” Gray said. “By putting us together, they’ve given us a chance to talk to one another, to plan some misbehaving if we were of a mind. And the four of us together have a much better chance of causing harm to someone coming our way than any one of us alone would. Strength in numbers. And, as Morales said, if we were up to no good, putting us together gives us a chance to get our stories straight. It’s easier to catch people in a lie if you separate them and ask them the same questions.” He shrugged and resumed his position of feigned indifference. “Of course, we could be under surveillance right now, which means they could be putting us together specifically to see if we’re going to plot to overthrow them or come up with some space tale about why we’re here in the first place.”
At the mention of possible surveillance, Federov and Morales both began scanning the room, eyes intent, searching for any indication of cameras or audio recorders. In SolComm space, they would both have already checked for monitors. Watchers there were omnipresent—at least everywhere outside of the Fringe. There was no right to privacy outside of your own berth, and even then, some of the laws regarding evidence collection were… thin. Gray realized that they all needed to reassess their thoughts on what Old Earth might be. These people had survived, and doing so required at least some level of technology. Better to assume that they had some level of equivalent tech to SolComm, even if the crew couldn’t recognize it as such.
“You think these varvary have surveillance equipment?” Federov snorted. “Look at this place.” His sweeping gesture took in the worn and dusty chamber, the battered chairs, the peeling paint and decrepit walls, the bare bulb. “This whole place is held together by space tape and rusting wire.”
“It doesn’t look great,” Bishop said. “But they did manage to defeat whatever attack the drone… or robot… or… heck, drobots made against us. Maybe they’ve lost a lot of technology, but they’ve held on to some too.”
“So they say,” Federov snorted again. “For all we know, was some kind of knockout gas from the drones and not nanite attack at all. Something formulated to eat through suits and get at the lungs. Could be simple chemistry. Doesn’t have to be nanites. And where is Dr. Hayer? If their medical technology is so good, why is she not here with us, eh?”
Gray hated to admit it, but Federov had a point. And he was starting to get worried about Hayer. “Maybe Hayer got a heavier dose,” he suggested. “She was right on top of that thing when it went all misty. But I can’t imagine our rescuers putting us all together without so much of a word if she was in trouble.” He let his feet drop back to the floor. “As for them engineering the attack, it seems like it would be a hell of a setup for not much payoff. You see how this place looks. Those drones or bots or whatever they were certainly looked a lot more modern than what we see here.”
Morales was nodding along as he spoke. “The captain’s right,” she said. “If they were responsible for the things that attacked us, they’d probably have a nicer setup than what we’ve seen.”
“Maybe this is just what they want us to see.”
Gray snorted at that. Federov was solid, but the man hadn’t lived as long as he had in a dangerous profession without a healthy dose of paranoia.
Bishop sighed. “We can talk about it all day, but we’re not going to get anywhere. If they attacked us, they could have killed us and didn’t, so they must want something, right? And if they saved us from those things when they didn’t have to, they must have done it for a reason. So, they must want something.” He offered a small smile. “I might not get away from the ship much, but even I’ve figured out that no one ever does anything for nothing. I think we need to figure out what they want.”
“What we want,” a new voice said from the doorway, “is what everyone else wants. As much peace and safety as we can manage on this godforsaken rock.”
Gray silently cursed himself. The door had swung open on well-oiled hinges, and caught them in a moment when no one was actively watching it. Granted, they were all tired, recovering from God alone knew what kind of injuries and drugs, and trying to come to grips with their current situation. Still, that kind of mistake could get people killed.
He put on his best unconcerned smile as he looked toward the speaker. He recognized the man, the same doctor who had been bedside when he’d awoken. At his side was a woman, also middle-aged, with iron-gray hair wearing hemstitched pants of a hodgepodge of materials and an off-white, loose-fitting blouse. As they filed into the room, Gray saw two more people behind them. He relaxed a little as he recognized Hayer, an expression of irritation on her face. Then he immediately tensed again as the final person—a young man—strode into the room, hand resting on his sidearm and projecting a belligerent air.
Morales lurched from her chair with a muttered, “Son of a bitch,” and the tension in the room jumped to eleven. Federov was on his feet, a feral smile curving his lips and his hands flexing as his eyes measured the distance between him and the only obviously armed person in the room. Hayer blinked in confusion but took a half step to clear herself from looming confrontation, concern writ large in her eyes. Bishop remained in his chair, but Gray could see the shift in the mechanic’s weight. He was as ready as the others to leap into the fray if things went south. It had happened fast, two heartbeats, no more. The kid was struggling with the retention lock on the holster he wore. A holster Gray now recognized as belonging to Morales.
“Stand down!” Gray barked. He slammed his hand into the table for emphasis, striking with so much force that he had to fight back the wince of pain. The impact resounded in the room like a gunshot. For a moment, every eye fell on Gray and with all the studious indifference he could manage, he put his arms behind his head again and leaned back in the chair, propping his legs up on the table once more.
“That’s my gun,” Morales growled.
The kid had finally managed to get the retention lock undone, but before he could draw the pistol, Stephens’ big hand closed around his wrist, locking the weapon in place. “That’s as may be, ma’am,” he said. “But we’re all in a bit of situation at the moment. I’m sure we can work this out without needing to resort to violence.”
He eyed Morales cautiously. Gray couldn’t blame him. As she stood there glaring at the kid, Morales looked… extremely competent. He could see her training in the set of her feet, the tension through her lower body, and the relaxed muscles of her back, arms, and shoulders. She was ready to move, but she wasn’t wasting any energy on tensing muscles that weren’t immediately needed.
Federov was still smiling, flexing his big, scarred hands and somehow giving off the impression of a very big dog at the end of a very weak chain. He didn’t look ready for violence. He looked eager for it.
“Enough,” Gray said again. “Sit down, Federov. You too, Morales. These people were kind enough to give us medical attention. I think you’ve ably demonstrated the fact that whatever is going on here, we’re not going to be easy meat, so let’s all just sit down and talk like rational adults.”
“Like that’s what any of us are,” Hayer muttered under her breath.
“Cap’s right,” Bishop said, relaxing somewhat in his chair. “No sense is us killing each other. Besides,” he said in a casual voice, but making eye contact with Federov, “I saw lots more of these folks in the halls on the way here. I imagine they’d be none too happy with us if we went and killed their leaders.” While he spoke, Hayer slipped into the room and took a seat near Gray.
